Lesley Cookman - Murder to Music

‘But at least she’s on the premises,’ said Libby, ‘and she doesn’t work.’

‘But she’s got her own life,’ said Jane. ‘She’s actually made some friends down here. She joined some club at the library and now she seems to be out all the time.’

‘Perhaps she’s found a new man?’ said Libby with glee.

‘Mum? Don’t be daft!’ Jane laughed. ‘Anyway, what about you? What have you been doing?’

Without hesitation Libby launched into a description of the past two days’ activities.

‘Amanda George? She’s your writing tutor?’ Jane turned to Fran. ‘Do you think she’d agree to do an interview with me for the paper? Or for our colour mag?’

‘I didn’t know you had a colour mag,’ said Libby. ‘How posh.’

‘It’s only monthly and goes across the whole group.’

‘I’m sure she would. All authors love a bit of free publicity,’ said Fran. ‘Shall I ask her?’

‘Yes, please,’ said Jane. ‘Give her my email address, would you? And do you suppose she’d let me use your investigation in the piece, too? It would be terrific local interest.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Fran. ‘In fact, if you do speak to her, don’t mention that we’ve told you anything about it. We don’t know what’s behind it, yet.’

‘No, I suppose so,’ said Jane, ‘but Cherry Ashton is a very emotive subject locally.’

‘Because of the workhouse?’ said Libby.

‘Well, yes.’ Jane nodded and turned to look out of the window. ‘And the children.’

LIBBY AND FRAN LOOKED at each other.

‘The children?’ echoed Libby.

Jane turned back. ‘Didn’t you know about the children?’ she said. They both shook their heads. ‘It’s not very nice. Didn’t you look it up on the internet?’

‘Of course,’ said Libby. ‘That’s how we knew White Lodge was – or had been – part of the workhouse.’

Jane shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it didn’t come up anywhere. Even I knew about it, and I didn’t come here to live until three years ago.’

‘But you work in the meeja. You get to hear things.’

‘You used to stay with your aunt, didn’t you?’ asked Fran. ‘Did you hear about it then?’

‘No. I can’t actually remember when I first heard about it, but it comes up periodically in the office.’

‘So what is it, then?’ said Libby.

‘You don’t have to tell us,’ said Fran quickly, noticing the look on Jane’s face. ‘I’m sure we can find out some other way.’

Libby looked puzzled and Fran made a face at her. ‘We can ask Campbell, can’t we?’

Jane’s expression relaxed. ‘That’s a good idea. He’ll know.’

An hour later, after much conversation about the coming baby and viewing of the cot, Terry came home and Libby and Fran left.

‘So tell me what that was all about?’ Libby stomped off down Cliff Terrace.

‘Oh, Lib.’ Fran sighed. ‘You saw her face. Whatever it is, it’s about children – buried there, I would guess. And Jane’s hormones are all over the place. She was getting really distressed.’

‘Oh.’ Libby scowled at her feet. ‘Sorry. Yes.’

‘I don’t think you’re really insensitive,’ said Fran, laying a hand on her arm, ‘just a bit thoughtless sometimes.’

‘I know.’ Libby glared at the beach. ‘Bull -’

‘In a china shop,’ Fran finished for her. ‘Not quite. Just a mind above other things.’

‘That’s a laugh. My mind is very firmly rooted in the everyday mire.’ Libby turned to her friend. ‘But nice of you to try and make me feel better. Now, are we going to call Campbell McLean?’

The local television news reporter had helped Fran and Libby in the past and never seemed to mind their occasional pleas for help.

‘I’ll ring the office,’ said Fran, fishing out her mobile. ‘We don’t want to disturb him in the middle of a broadcast.’

Kent and Coast Television promised to get a message to Campbell as soon as they could, but warned that as he was out recording a piece about bulls for the evening bulletin it might be some time.

‘Do you think he’s having to get up close and personal with some hulking great beast?’ asked Libby, as they arrived at Coastguard Cottage.

‘Remember him at that farm we went to looking for illegal immigrants?’

Libby laughed. ‘He hated that, didn’t he?’

‘He got a good item out of it, though,’ said Fran. ‘Come on, if we’re going now. You can drop me back here, can’t you? It’s on your way?’

‘Oh, are we still going? I thought you might want to wait to talk to Campbell.’ Libby fished in her basket for Romeo’s keys.

‘Not chickening out, are you?’ Fran waited for Libby to unlock the passenger door, and climbed in.

‘Course not.’ Libby started the engine. ‘Now, as far as I remember, we drive right past Creekmarsh towards the saltings.’

‘But we don’t know if it’s on the main road, do we?’ said Fran.

‘There aren’t many roads in Cherry Ashton. We’ll find it.’

The road followed the river past Lewis Osbourne-Walker’s house Creekmarsh, then turned inland on to the windswept saltings.

‘There,’ said Libby, pointing at a spire above a slight rise. ‘That must be Cherry Ashton.’

‘Is this the only road in?’

‘Don’t know. Look, that’s it, I bet you.’

Ahead of them, against a sky darkening with rain clouds, stood a house. A solitary tree stood opposite on the other side of the road, but that was all. Libby stopped the car.

There was complete silence. The house, part half-timbered and part tile-hung, felt dead, its windows, as Rosie had said, boarded up. A tall wall ran along the front.

‘Come on then,’ said Libby, after a moment. ‘This is what we’ve come to see.’

Fran followed her across the road, and through the archway in the wall.

‘It doesn’t feel right,’ she said.

‘As though we’re trespassing, you mean?’ said Libby. ‘Yes, I feel a bit like that, too. But we’re not. Look.’ She waggled the keys before going up to the front door and peering at the locks.

‘No, I didn’t mean that,’ said Fran. ‘There’s something not right about this place.’

Libby swung the door wide. ‘Fine time to have one of your moments,’ she said, and stepped inside.

‘Exactly the right time, I’d have thought,’ said Fran. ‘I’m not sure I can go inside.’

Libby turned round. ‘You don’t have to. I’ll look round on my own, if you like.’

Fran took a deep breath. ‘No, I’ll come.’ She stepped gingerly forward and shivered.

The hall was long, wide and very dark. Past the sweeping curve of the staircase could be seen a little light, which Libby soon discovered to be a door into the back garden.

‘Well, they didn’t board this up,’ she said, rattling the door handle. ‘I wonder if one of my keys opens it?’

‘Shouldn’t we finish looking round inside first?’ said Fran. ‘If I go outside I won’t want to come in again.’

‘That bad, huh?’ Libby cocked her head on one side. ‘What’s the feeling exactly?’

‘I’m just spooked.’ Fran looked round. ‘It feels as though something’s here.’

Libby frowned. ‘Don’t say that.’

‘Sorry.’ Fran moved back down the hall and made for a pair of double doors. ‘This is the room with the long windows and a piano.’

Libby raised her eyebrows but said nothing as Fran opened the doors.

The boards over the windows had not been fixed particularly well, and there was enough light to see that the room indeed matched Rosie’s description, including, in the corner, a baby grand piano.

‘Nothing else,’ said Fran. ‘Let’s find the kitchen with a bath in it.’